


and for that love to be with men

by sebviathan



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Emotional Constipation, First Time, Gay Panic, M/M, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), geralt is a whole ass gay man who doesn't know what being gay is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23521789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: Something's not right about what I'm doing but I'm still doing it—living in the worst parts, ruining myself. My inner life is a sheet of black glass. If I fell through the floor I would keep falling.The enormity of Geralt's desire disgusts him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 466





	and for that love to be with men

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't read the books or played the games so idk how accurately the netflix adaptation captures geralt, but i found him to be a kind of obvious vessel through which a straight white male audience can simultaneously have a power fantasy AND victimhood fantasy.... and regardless of its faithfulness to the source material. a character experiencing serious in-universe prejudice while appearing to have NOTHING in common with real-life minorities? kinda bullshit.
> 
> anyway it's a favorite pastime of mine to take macho characters that straight men love and explore how they're definitely gay and just repressed

Sometimes he can't help but believe it's true, what they say. That Witchers don't feel human emotion.

His memories and objective knowledge will remind him distantly of all the reasons that that is false—his human beginnings, how he had to be _taught_ to put feelings aside because his mutations very explicitly did not naturally dampen them, what he knows the various emotions to feel like... but that's the paradox of it. He has to rely on _facts_ to tell him that he feels, rather than simply feeling.

The emotions just never seem to come when he needs them to prove that idea wrong.

When humans deride him for what they assume he lacks, they likely do believe he feels some sort of happiness and anger—at least to the extent that an animal who understands language would.

And there _is_ some definite truth to the idea that very little beyond instinctual pleasures will make him feel inclined to smile. So little, in fact, that when he does feel a tug at the edges of his lips, a spike of defensiveness often comes to fend off the unnatural urge. The same applies to his anger, which sits so consistently at the core of everything he does that it takes what would be true _rage_ for most humans in order to unbalance him.

But he has also known sadness as non-mutated humans do. He's felt the pain of loss, and grief, and disappointment, and jealousy. He knows even worry and fear and empathy and guilt and _remorse_ , all on a far more regular basis than many would believe.

Far more than he can sometimes bring _himself_ to believe—because the emotion feels distant the moment that it stops. Because he registers it based on how it affects him physically, and that is precisely what obscures the supposed humanity of it. Humans don't need to think about it like that. Humans just _know_.

 _Witchers can't feel human emotion,_ they say, and he remains silent because there is no effective defense he could give that doesn't omit some truth.

As far as humans are concerned, that is, what he knows for certain that he lacks may as well be the whole breadth of it.

*

There is at least one emotion that Geralt feels that humans don't, presumably as a side-effect of his mutations. It doesn't aid his lifestyle. Nor does it seem to make up for his shortcomings. It's just _there_.

For a long time during his adolescence, he believed the heat that would sporadically engulf his chest and face to be an ailment. He told no one, for fear that it would put a stop to his training—and possibly mean death, as he now knew too much. As he suffered through his final mutations and proved immune to all diseases, he could only believe that it had passed. Only after he set out into the world and had it resurface, feeling precisely as it had before, did he discover that it was simply a part of him. He still told no one.

The School of the Wolf did give him comprehensive lessons on how abstract stimuli would change his blood pressure and subsequently the temperature map of his body. He was taught how to force it back to a neutral state, leaving only a spiritual echo of how it felt, to suit his purposes.

In order to do so, however, he needs to understand what is causing the change.

Decades later, Geralt's best guess is something akin to jealousy. A very specific jealousy derived from shame over his own shortcomings and seeing the very things that he lacks present in other men. Arisen from the experimentation he endured in early life, and exacerbated by his Witcher lifestyle.

He felt it during combat as a boy, like a rash abruptly spotting his neck as he grappled with those older and more muscular than him.

He felt it during lessons of mental fortitude as a young man, burning as though it was the very thing that forged the friendly rivalries with his classmates.

He's felt it as a low simmer amongst many past, brief friendships, and as fiery stabs amongst a handful of enemies.

He now feels it most often among the simpler and less robust human men—those who in retrospect are settled down, who live a relatively peaceful life, who have a family or at least a definite place in their community. All things Geralt knows that he _wishes_ he could fit into, as much as it's grown to deeply anger him to think of. Lest he be reminded of how he cannot have it.

He feels a fire blow over him as he sits in the corner of a tavern in Posada, and his half-century old instinct responds with a soft rage to even out the heat before he even registers what has caused it. Then the bard's song ends, and that rage grows lonely.

 _The fool is comfortable enough with himself to sing to an unwilling audience,_ that same instinct tells him. It always explains That away so casually now, without any effort needed to wonder. Part of Geralt is grateful for it. Part of him knows that it can't be entirely right, or else he would know how to just _stop_ That. All of him grows more exhausted with his own mental back-and-forth each new time that That makes itself known.

It makes itself known _again_ as the bard fixes his gaze directly upon him.

 _Oh, Gods. Don't come over here._ Please _don't come over here._

Then the bard begins walking over there. He doesn't take his eyes off of Geralt for the slightest moment. Geralt already can't tell where That ends and his anger begins before the bard opens his mouth:

"I love the way you just... sit in the corner and brood."

It's easy to call it all annoyance, after that. This man hasn't observed his witcherhood at all but is simply trying to satisfy his own ego. Practically begging a total stranger for a compliment on his performance.

Well. He doesn't _say_ compliment, but what sort of artist actually _wants_ constructive criticism? Then again, he did approach an intimidating stranger for a review after the rest of the tavern told him to shut up.

As the man sits across from him, asking for his opinion like they're good friends, Geralt briefly tries to conjure up something that is simultaneously true _and_ mean enough to drive him away. Perhaps a comment on his range, or the smoothness of his voice, or how he holds himself.

He can't think of anything.

"They don't exist," is instead his entirely neutral review of the song. It's constructive enough to let him know that those creatures aren't real.

"How would you know?" the bard asks, at which Geralt has a rare moment of feeling quite like an idiot.

That feeling worsens the longer that he sits there rather than leaving, and yet he truly has no idea why he doesn't stand up sooner—why he allows the bard to come to the realization of exactly who he is and why he readily confirms it by taking that moment to glare. He's had so many years to learn _not_ to do this, and _yet_ —

"You're the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia," the bard says, loud enough for the whole tavern to hear... and in the sweetest tone that Geralt has ever heard his title spoken.

His instinct doesn't have an answer for why he burns up, that time.

It's far from the first time a commoner has been curious of him rather than hateful, or excited by his power rather than properly intimidated. Though Geralt finds it often worse than the alternative—at least everyone with an immediately negative response to him is _predictable_.

There's no telling, meanwhile, when the nice ones will turn. Or how their ultimately selfish motives will present.

He has particularly little idea what to make of the bard, especially for having followed him so far. Those who have volunteered their help to his jobs in the past have always been entirely naive children who craved adventure, or genuinely well-trained hunters. Never men like... _this_.

It may be the novelty of this foolish behavior—driven by a desire for something so inconsequential as a _story_ —that keeps Geralt from attempting to physically stop the bard for so long. And the same that keeps him from attempting again when a swift punch to the gut doesn't work on this madman. A bit of brief amusement is all it is, surely.

_And it's his deep passion for what he does that you're so jealous of._

A perfectly good explanation for everything, he thinks. Geralt only wishes that the bard could speak with less poetry so _he_ wouldn't have even more heat to endure in this desert.

*

It never ends, with Jaskier. What used to be That Annoyingly Unnameable Emotion has become a near constant thrum that makes the dulled thrill of killing a monster feel like _relief_.

...And what was once an annoying tagalong is now an inescapable presence in his life. Geralt can hardly even consider himself safe in the bed of a whore, now that there's a widely-known song to go with each of his scars.

The idea that his entire reputation could be turned around with those songs truly seemed insane when Jaskier first proposed it. Geralt frankly regarded even the ideal end with apprehensiveness—to have his existence respected, while a long-distant dream, is one thing. But to be _famous_? In a _good_ way? To be liked, admired... _revered_ at every turn?

He was afraid of how unfamiliar his own memories would become if and when those changes took, and he was clearly right to be. If given the choice he might not necessarily trade it all back, because who in their right mind _chooses_ ostracization, but—

"Beyond the extra coin, I don't much care for it," is what he tells Jaskier, who seems to think that he's merely being stoic for the sake of it—and offers (threatens) to write a song about that very trait.

And he will. He's made it clear from the very first moment that he will persist as long as he's permitted, and... for all of his mutant powers, Geralt has lacked the will to resist since very early on. _Or is it the desire to resist?_

 _Whichever._ If need be he can always find distraction in a selkiemore's guts.

When Geralt says _I'm not your friend_ , Jaskier misunderstands it to mean _you're not MY friend._

Rather than correct him, Geralt only ever resolves to repeat it when next appropriate and hopes that Jaskier will understand it that time. To be one's friend is to be worthy of their loyalty and trust—to be genuinely _known_ by them to begin with. By all accounts, someone as old and weathered as Geralt simply cannot be known after a mere three years. Least of all by a human.

But he _does_ know Jaskier. And clearly, the bard thinks that he understands him because he's been allowed to get physically close. He probably thinks that a Witcher allowing him to live at all is a sign of fondness, as opposed to a sign that a Witcher can have basic morals.

Nevermind the true extent of Geralt's fondness—Jaskier simply does not understand. He can't. The evidence is clear enough in his songs.

Some, Geralt will admit in the privacy of his own mind, have bits that are quite the earworm. If any physical inclination to be caught up in something as human as _music_ hadn't been extensively trained out of him, he doubts that he'd be able to resist humming the tunes to himself whether he actually liked them or not.

Whenever asked what he thinks of them, he gives a noncommittal grunt and lets the asker decide what that means. They usually assume it a sign of humility. _Jaskier_ assumes it an unwillingness to give a compliment.

Jaskier also assumes that his haste to leave the room during any song, whether featuring him or not, is a dislike for festivity in general. But Geralt readily lets him believe that—he has _no_ intention to speak of how every time the bard sings, his chest burns and burns until even his Witcher constitution struggles to resist the ache.

Of course, when the songs _are_ about him, That burn is accompanied by another, simpler one. Which gives him all the more reason to leave.

He leaves because the songs aren't _true_.

"Exaggerate all you need to of the monster slayings," he tells Jaskier, "but I will not sit through the disrespect of the life that I just took."

"Respect doesn't make history," Jaskier will repeat, often in a lilted tone and alongside a strum of his lute, as though to convince him to stay and listen. It only makes it clearer how little he understands.

And there is still more Geralt does not tell him. At least as long as Jaskier neglects to ask the right questions.

"You don't enjoy being a muse."

It's not a question, yet Jaskier expects an answer. For the first time, Geralt finds himself happy to give it to him—still, after taking a swig of ale, and with an averted gaze.

"I don't."

"...See, I thought before that it was only how I embellished the hunts that bothered you. I could respect that—I _do_ understand that many of the monsters you face are only trying to survive like any other creature. Hell, I _admire_ your respect for them. That's why I've been composing more songs entirely free of slayings, _just_ about you... and you still won't so much as silently brood through half of one."

"Yes, because I don't enjoy being a muse," he says. "Glad we finally worked that out."

"Yes, yes—but would you mind explaining _why_ , Geralt?" Jaskier finally outright asks, leaning comically far over the bar so that Geralt has no choice but to meet his eyes. "Forgive me, my friend, but it's all very confusing, and you so rarely give me satisfying answers to any of my questions. I think that as your bard, I deserve at least this one."

"I am not—"

"And yes, I know, _I'm not your friend, you're not my bard_ ," he growls in a horrible impression of him—"can you please just tell me why my very _successful_ efforts to immortalize you in song and make you loved across all lands go so unappreciated?"

Geralt's lips tighten, and his nostrils flare, and his pupils shrink, all just slightly but without his permission—a rare sensation that occurs only with true, provoked anger. It brings him some relief to see that Jaskier notices and moves an inch back.

If only the common language wasn't so limiting. He wouldn't need to maintain a (now purposeful) glare for so long while he figures out how to best articulate himself.

"...They aren't successful."

Jaskier balks. "Well, that's... just... plain untrue—why, I've seen women begin to ignore my presence in _favor_ of you, lately—"

"Those women don't love _me_. They love your songs."

A bit of Geralt's dignity leaves him as he lets all of that slip from his tongue, and the cold shame quickly carries him off of the barstool and toward the stairs. At least that should have made his point clear.

It should have, but Jaskier follows until they are shoulder-to-shoulder on the inn's narrow staircase.

"If all they loved was my songs, they wouldn't be _ignoring_ me, Geralt," he practically laughs. "Surely you understand that."

Anger grips him again, this time in the neck. He pauses for only a moment to send it away before continuing upward.

"...To be loved for something you are not is not to be loved at all," Geralt says very deliberately and slowly, as though speaking to a child. "Surely you understand _that_."

He accepted long ago that he would not receive real love in this life, and he believed that he ceased to desire it.

It took only a reminder of how _many_ embellishments he needs in order to be loved... to crush that belief.

When he doesn't sing about monsters, Jaskier sings of his supposed selflessness and bravery. His heroism and fairness and justness and protectiveness over humanity. His rugged beauty and stoic charm. There are few outright lies, but quite a lot of exaggeration—and so much is omitted that they do not sound like songs about _him_. The man they describe does not exist.

Geralt could deal with being hated, even feared for who he is. He _cannot_ stand the idea of pretending to be another man just for some illusion of love. He can't stand the present reminder that he _needs_ to be that other man if he even wants acceptance.

What he can stand the least is the confusion it arises, as all of this seems to fit precisely into what he believed That Unnameable Emotion to be for years... yet it brings forth no heat in his chest.

Jaskier makes no effort to further that conversation in the following weeks, thank the gods. He doesn't play any of those ballads that remind Geralt of his shortcomings when he's within earshot anymore, either. He does, however, continue with all other forms of prodding Geralt into spilling his guts after a mere day of respite. It's all frankly a better result of his outburst than he could have expected.

Then comes a very textbook werewolf slaying that an entire town rejoices in nonetheless, and a revel in honor of The White Wolf with, naturally, _many_ a request for performances of Jaskier's best hits. Geralt takes his first opportunity to slip away as he always does—in the company of a whore, as the only way that he'll be left otherwise alone.

All too commonly, meanwhile, the walls are too thin to entirely muffle the lyrics. His hearing is too sharp even when he tunes it out. He knows precisely which monster is being sung about at any moment. He even hears mention of a _new song, which I've just put the final touches on earlier this afternoon_.

Shortly after, his door opens.

"Sorry to disturb you, Geralt of Rivia," the woman on the other side giggles, "but I've been asked to take you back downstairs."

"I'm not going," he counters immediately—which he knows must seem odd, as he wasn't in the middle of anything in particular. He finished ages ago.

"Your bard says it's very important," she presses.

_Oh, no._

He sighs. "I don't want to hear his new song. You can tell him that. Now _leave_."

She doesn't hesitate to close the door. Eridia, whose bed he's still in, asks him what that was about—but doesn't get entirely through her question before Geralt's ears are piqued by a new noise downstairs. An unfamiliar, soft tune. And an almost too-quiet first lyric—

_This, is the tale, of a butcher,  
_ _whose existence alone is a crime._

A sharp breath escapes him. _Certainly he isn't..._

_By his hand die so many a creature,  
_ _who only do what they need to survive..._

Geralt doesn't realize that he's been drawn out of his room until he's standing at the base of the stairs. Vaguely, he catches the surprised gaze of the woman who was sent to fetch him. His own is fixed on Jaskier, whose in turn is fixed on his lute rather than the crowd.

_And in that same hand goes the coin  
_ _that will buy his new loins,  
_ _as a cruelly ironic tithe—  
_ _Which, he takes with contempt,  
_ _and to the next town he runs...  
_ _He hates what he does,  
_ _but it has to be done._

Murmurs spot around the crowd, now, wondering whether the melody will pick up. No one glances in Geralt's direction even as he steps further into the room. It's as though they have no idea what the song is about. Jaskier keeps going without looking up.

_The butcher fulfils but a purpose—  
_ _like a dog, he was bred to attack.  
_ _To cut swift and leave only a carcass,  
_ _and be rid without e'er looking back..._

_But he would say "never again"  
_ _if only he wasn't trained,  
_ _and he'd settle in small, quiet shack—  
_ _Yes, in his miserable life,  
_ _that's his idea of fun...  
_ _He tires of what he does,  
_ _but it has to be done._

_It was said, that the butcher, feels nothing,  
_ _that he is little more than a beast.  
_ _Priced no different than what he was cutting  
_ _by the same men who had paid him the fee..._

_Now he shoulders these lies,  
_ _finding, as hard as he tries,  
_ _that they are difficult not to believe—  
_ _So, he claims to need no one  
_ _and want but for none  
_ _for he loathes what he does,  
_ _but it has to be done._

_Yes, he hates what he does,  
_ _but it has to be done._

_Yes, he hates what he's done,  
_ _but it has to be done._

_Yes, he hates what he is...  
_ _but it has to be done._

Jaskier only raises his head at the first sign of scattered applause, which is a good several seconds after it's clearly over.

"Yes, I know," he needlessly shouts over the thinned-out crowd, "it's quite... experimental for my usual style, but—!"

" _Play the one about the vampiress again!_ " a patron loudly interrupts from the back, to an equally loud cheer of agreement.

Jaskier visibly deflates for only a fraction of a second before looking directly at Geralt. He immediately announces that he'll be taking a short break and hops off of the table he was using as a stage.

It takes Geralt a moment to move. He almost lost an awareness of his surroundings, as though the bard's song was a genuine spell. _Maybe it was._ Nevertheless, the last thing he wants when he is confronted about this is an audience.

"Hey—oh, wow, I thought it would be cold out here," is the first thing Jaskier says upon following him past the back doors. "Unless—is that _you_? It's like your body heat is just... radiating."

"...It's a Witcher thing," Geralt sighs, bringing himself only to shuffle his feet slowly forward rather than his usual confident stride. It allows the bard to make it to his front in record time.

"That's fascinating and I'd absolutely like to know more, but _first_ —" He takes a deep breath, puts both pointer fingers inches from Geralt's chest, and beams the brightest that Geralt has ever seen. "I do believe that that is the first time that you have willingly stuck around until the end of a song. Please tell me that you were there for the beginning."

 _You reap so little pleasure from life anymore. Have you_ ever _beamed like that?_

Once again a perfectly fine explanation for the massive build-up of heat, but useless to actually help him. He fears that Jaskier will die of heatstroke soon if it keeps going at this rate.

"I was," he admits with relative ease. Then, with less ease, "I don't think it was very well-received."

The bard's smile only just barely dims. "Yes, well. I've realized that, uh... not all art worth making is necessarily _for_ everyone. Now, um. How do you suppose my target audience took it?"

The answer to that is still working itself out. But Jaskier is already needing to fan the sweat off of his face, which gives Geralt limited time. He swallows his pride.

"It... made me sad." The heat, along with the grin on the other man's face, promptly subsides. "And then angry. And then sad again."

He watches Jaskier's incredulity bloom with some degree of amusement, but a larger degree of fear.

In spite of it, before escaping the scene for good, he puts a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I liked it."

*

For better or for worse, he never gave much thought to his body as anything other than a vehicle and tool until Jaskier began singing about it. Whether merely commenting upon his hair in a lyrical tone, or describing the placement and shape of his scars in those monster ballads, or praising the size and strength of his muscles in the... _other_ ones...

Geralt has been well aware that his stature is envied by most men, of course. His height alone is intimidating. No woman that he's slept with, as a paid service or otherwise, has neglected to make _some_ compliment.

He's just... _only_ been aware. It never crossed his mind when not immediately relevant.

Until now.

It's not just direct mention of his own form that will drive him to think subjectively, either—he's found himself heating up in response to songs of Jaskier's various ex-lovers. Hearing a lyric about smooth, voluptuous hips and feeling suddenly aware of the sharpness at which his own jut out. Wondering whether he likes that about himself or not. Wondering _if I've gone insane_.

He thinks the most when Jaskier touches him. Why he _allows_ so much of it is what he really should be wondering, but—he can't. There is no will in him to resist from the moment that the bard begins to work shampoo through his hair (the permanently white hair that gives him away, or _the ashy locks to which the ladies all flock_ ), or as he massages his shoulders (weathered and torn and _rippled and broad_ ), or as he helps him shave (the eternal shadow that keeps him frightening and _a dash of character on a chiselled face_ )—

Not even as Jaskier rubs lotion so very generously on his back and thighs and buttocks, singing to himself all the while, can Geralt bring himself to do more than lie still and burn alive.

"Oh, the glorious stories you'll find,  
from the caverns and valleys on the way down the spine...  
unyielding gold,  
full of tales untold...  
and below it, a lovely behind."

 _Lovely,_ Geralt's mind repeats. _Is it?_

It's actually one of the less poetic verses that the bard has sung about his body. He isn't usually as comical.

"I'm thinking of calling that one ' _Through the White Wolf Woods_ '—when I finish it, anyway," Jaskier tells him, utterly shameless. "What do you think?"

Geralt would die before he admitted a _sliver_ of what he's thinking. He just grunts.

"Just as I thought... my hands are too dextrous for my own good and have rendered you speechless. Well—luckily for you, there's still your front to do after all that dries. Don't get too impatient, now!"

He doesn't, except perhaps that he wishes for the end of _everything_ if only it would give his mind some peace. Instead he has only a bottle of ale through which to cope while he waits... and while Jaskier folds his clothes and sings some more. This time about his thighs. Comparing their thickness to that of tree trunks and hams, and their color to honey, and the hair to a forest that _begs_ to be travelled...

There is surely a puddle of sweat that has soaked through the bed underneath him, now. Geralt swiftly decides that however dry his entire back side is, it's _enough_.

Judging by how quickly Jaskier moves when he sits up, he seems just as impatient.

"Oh, you're done?— _oh_." Then he abruptly stops with one arm still extended toward the bucket of lotion. A second passes and he lets it drop. He suddenly looks as though he's having trouble breathing. "Oh my."

Geralt furrows his brow in concern. "What is it?"

"... _Well_ , I—" Jaskier's voice breaks. He lets out a shaky laugh. "I... suppose I've just. Even from the occasional glimpses I've caught from you in the throes of passion, I don't think I've ever seen you so... aroused."

His eyes flicker downward, and Geralt's follow to find a tent in the sheet that he somehow had _no_ idea was there. He must have been too distracted by the fiery thrum throughout the rest of his body to notice.

His reflexes pull more of the sheet over his legs at the same time that Jaskier continues:

"I did _suspect_ , considering how hot you were running and how red you got all while I did your legs, but... I didn't want to say—"

"Wait." Geralt screws up his face for the first time in a long time. A hundred different things want to come out of his mouth and it takes _everything_ to simply pick one. "...Red?"

The other man's eyes nervously rake him over. He's on the bed now. "Yes, the blush has consumed you almost... _comically_ so. Why, I'm paler than you and I've only ever found myself so red in the middle of—"

" _You_ feel this?"

Now, Jaskier frowns and tilts his head. "...This?"

"This unbearable _heat_. That isn't... I—" It's growing so bad that he can hardly think straight. "I... believed it was a sensation exclusive to Witchers."

"You should have asked a human sooner, then, because it certainly isn't."

A long beat of silence passes. He can hear Jaskier's quickening heartbeat, louder and louder by the moment as he shifts gently across the bed.

"So, Geralt... I don't suppose you would like my help with that?" And he nods toward the bundled sheet.

His own heart throbs, along with everything else. He says nothing.

"...I imagine I'll make it far less unbearable."

Even in Geralt's most desperate days, the blood has rushed between his legs and nowhere else. The remedy, therefore, has always been simple. He has a hard time believing that the very same action will fix _this_.

But some part of him wants very much to believe.

And Jaskier made that sound like a promise.

As always when it comes to his persistence, then, with an effortless motion Geralt silently allows the bard to proceed.

He doesn't hesitate once Geralt's hard cock is uncovered, either. Jaskier puts his hands on either side of his hips and pulls himself forward until he meets Geralt with his mouth—at which he makes a sharp, surprised noise.

 _I thought you were going to use those 'hands that are too dextrous for your own good,'_ he thinks but could not say even if he wanted to. Not while Jaskier swirls his tongue around like that.

Granted, he doesn't _normally_ say anything during this. Normally he does nothing more than lie back and close his eyes while the whore does as she pleases, simply waiting for either his release, or for her to change her efforts and climb on top. More often the latter. In all cases he cares only to see her body, and not necessarily her face, if he looks at her for any significant time at all.

Now, Geralt _tries_ to rest his head back. It seems to refuse to touch a pillow for longer than a half-second, however, before shooting back up so he can see. He keeps taking more time to catch himself and force himself back down—to force his hands back to the sheets, too. He can't help it, he—

He wants to watch Jaskier so fucking badly.

He wants to follow the direction that Jaskier bobs his head or drags his tongue, he wants to crane his neck to see the hollow of Jaskier's cheeks, he wants to meet Jaskier's eyes and not let go of his gaze for even a moment, he wants to put his hands in Jaskier's hair not even to control his movements but just to _respond_ , he wants _Jaskier's_ hands to roam somewhere other than his legs—

He realizes that he hasn't felt any less warm since this began, and yet... that he doesn't want it to end, anymore.

But all things must.

" _Wait, I'm_ —"

There are a great many things that Jaskier has been ready to do for him, without any request on his part, that most of anyone wouldn't even _consider_ without payment. While considering him incredibly odd for it, Geralt has been used to this attitude for a long time. So much so that all of this could have _easily_ been another mere example of his eager servitude—

Until Jaskier's lips slide quick to meet the base of his cock and Geralt spills down his willing throat... and the moment of clarity that comes next.

He hears Jaskier moan as he swallows. He blinks away an unfamiliar layer of tears that have obscured his vision. He shudders, and drops to his elbows, and feels a new, milder heat settle in.

He's wondering what exactly just happened when Jaskier climbs up his chest and kisses him.

Oh.

Now Geralt understands even less. His lips react the way that they know how for a moment, but as soon as it occurs to him that he likes it, he pulls back and sits up. Jaskier falls unceremoniously onto the bed.

" _Woah_ —wait, Geralt... did I—?"

"I'm sorry, I..." He's already off the bed entirely, pulling his clothes back on with more haste than he's ever done. "...I need some air."

He doesn't so much as glance at Jaskier again before he's out the door, but he can sense him watching as he rides away on Roach.

*

_I want nothing and need no one,_ he has claimed countless times, purely to hide how very much he wants and needs. From himself included. It couldn't have been _so_ wrong to think that Witchers couldn't feel when, even at its strongest, his heart beats much slower than any human's...

Yet it beats with the desire to love and be loved—and isn't that the most human thing of all?

Before very recently, he had no idea how strongly it _could_ beat. How much there _was_ for him to feel. He believed himself lacking. He's beginning now to realize that he may have simply been looking in the wrong places.

 _Now_ being coincidentally shortly before Jaskier finds him.

" _Geralt_! Good Gods, man—" He rushes upon the scene with such force that he repeatedly trips over tree roots, ignoring that the man he's chasing is sat on the ground. "—do you know how hard it was to find you? What the _hell_ are you doing?"

"I told you I needed some air," he says, without moving from the entrance of his tent or making an effort to project his voice.

Jaskier finally stops in front of him, breathing too hard to speak for a moment.

"That... was two days ago! I couldn't even wait in the inn because I had no more money, because it was all in your pockets."

Geralt immediately palms his coat for the bag of coins and feels a spike of guilt. He hadn't thought of that. Rather than continuing into some winding spiel about how rough his past two days have been, however, Jaskier lets out a long sigh and kneels to the ground. He looks... sad.

"Really, Geralt, I thought that we had gotten to a point... I didn't think you of all people would be so ashamed. Perhaps I'm just—ignorant of whatever attitudes they held in Kaer Morhen about the love between men, but surely..."

"Explain what you mean by that," he breathes more than he speaks. "By... love between men."

For a long moment, there is an intense, silent question in Jaskier's eyes. Then it fades, and Jaskier tilts his head.

"I don't think you truly need me to."

And he reaches out for Geralt's knee.

He remembers times that women's hands have covered his knee, often sliding further up his leg, and how they drew his blood so quickly south. How for some of them, so many decades ago, the effect of those touches briefly made him believe that he was in love.

But the heat only ever pooled in one place. It was always predictable, indiscriminate. The loveliest maiden could stand naked in front of him and all that would be affected is his cock.

And... so many men, entirely clothed, have done to him _some_ version of the fire that was brought out two nights ago. And of which Jaskier is fanning the coals at this very moment. There is no rationalizing with jealousy, anymore.

"I... didn't know...," Geralt begins to admit, staring at the hand on his knee, "...that it was possible. We were taught to manage our emotions with pure objectivity. We— _I_ believed... I was only taught that desire was something felt for women. No one ever told me that I—"

" _Geralt._ " Almost seamlessly, the hand on his knee has moved up to his cheek. He looks up to find Jaskier's face only a foot away, his eyes glistening. "It's okay. You don't need to desire women. Or—if you still do alongside men, like myself, that's obviously—"

"I don't." It feels simultaneously wonderful and terrifying to say that aloud. Jaskier seems to realize that—and Geralt remembers something. "...You have experience with men."

"What gave it away?" He's smug about it. "Was it the _pristine_ skill with which I sucked your—?"

" _Who?_ "

Geralt doesn't care exactly _where_ Jaskier's mouth has been before him; he just wants to hear more evidence that he isn't alone in this. He wants to feel sure that this is a fact of life and not something the two of them just made up here in these woods.

And after that, he wants Jaskier to join him inside the tent, and to very gently help him make up for all the years that he lost.

***

As far as Geralt knows, Jaskier has not attempted to perform _The Butcher_ at any venues after the first. It only makes sense. There is no question of how few will even understand that the Butcher _is_ the edgy truth while the White Wolf is the romantic dramatization, let alone _like_ that truth.

He appreciates it, too. He doesn't need the reminder that his truth is not only hated but disbelieved. And he understands how important it is to Jaskier to make history—something that _respect_ does not do. He's proven to be right about that.

Yet he keeps adding more verses, which even Geralt only becomes privy to on accident.

Jaskier works them out as he sits by their campfires and waits for him to return with food, unaware how far his voice carries. He picks at his lute in that soft, sad tune when he thinks Geralt is asleep and mutters undecided lyrics. He also doesn't take very much care to hide the parchment that he's written it all on.

Geralt doesn't take much care to read it in secret, either. When Jaskier catches him, he looks up from the pages casually. He doesn't need to speak or even frown to make his question obvious: _Why? Who are these for?_

"...I know I've said that respect doesn't make history," he sighs with a sheepish smile, sitting down on his lap and gently taking the pages in hand. "But it can make good art. I suppose I... just wanted it to exist for its own sake. My own private extended edition."

He chuckles, but looks guilty for not having told him before. Geralt decides to quell it.

" _Our._ "

"Hm?—Oh." Jaskier smiles. "Yes, _our_ private extended edition... It does feel a bit long now, though, doesn't it? Dare I say, even... the last verse isn't quite as accurate anymore."

Geralt hums in agreement. Then, remembering that he is allowed to, he wraps an arm around Jaskier's waist.

"You could always write a happier song."

The man in his lap beams with surprise. "You—you would like that?"

"So long as it's truthful. And... nuanced."

"A challenging request, my friend, but I accept!"

As Jaskier plants a firm kiss on his cheek, a comforting warmth blooming from where his lips and hands touch, Geralt can only think of how easy it should truly be, now. _He_ of all people has worked out what it is he desires and he _has_ it.

_To love, to be loved... and for that love to be with men._

It's right in front of him. It'll only take as long as Jaskier manages to avoid a mirror before he has his muse, and the lyrics will come flowing smoother than ever. The thought tugs at the edges of Geralt's lips until they find his bard's.

"I'm sure you'll manage just fine."

**Author's Note:**

> the summary is directly from richard silken's _war of the foxes_
> 
> anyway just a reminder that attraction and relationships are supposed to feel GOOD, and like something that you actively want, not just something that you can tolerate. personally, the realization that my capcity to be aroused by women didn't necessarily mean that i was attracted to them was a huge turning point for me, and the moment that it occurred to me that geralt may very well be a whole ass gay man in a universe where being gay isn't the slightest bit normalized, i had to write him going through the same thing.
> 
> (also if anyone happens to want to cover _The Butcher_ , which was entirely original, PLEASE be my guest and also pls show me
> 
> EDIT: i've uploaded myself singing the butcher to youtube [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YuHbdk3N2WU) if you want to know how i imagined the melody and use that, but if you want to put your own spin on it or had something else in mind entirely, that's cool with me!)


End file.
